The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (Steampunk Chronicles 0.5)(9)
Suddenly Lady Morton and Phoebe were there, inserting themselves so Finley was forced to step back from the man.
“Forgive me, Lord Vincent,” Lady Morton said, a flush in her cheeks. “I was caught up in conversation with Lady Marsden, else I would have made introductions. I see you’ve already met our cousin, Miss Finley Bennet.”
Indeed I have,” Lord Vincent replied as he bowed over each of their hands. “You are lovely as always, Lady Morton. Lady Phoebe, allow me to say that you are more beautiful each time I see you.”
Phoebe blushed at his praise. Finley didn’t blame her—it was a pretty racy thing for him to say to someone who was engaged.
Then Phoebe raised her gaze, and Finley saw something in her bright eyes that she could not identify. Was it fear? Panic?
“Forgive me, cousin,” Phoebe said to her, her voice low and a little shaky. She slipped her arm around Lord Vincent’s, her face now strangely pale. “I should have been the one to make the introductions. May I present Harris Spencer-White, Earl Vincent, our host for the evening and my fiancé.”
CHAPTER FOUR
An hour later, Finley was still reeling. Lord Vincent was Phoebe’s fiancé? She knew large age differences weren’t uncommon amongst the upper crust—or the lower for that matter—but the man was more than twice Phoebe’s age!
She watched them on the dance floor. Lord Vincent had a limp, but that didn’t stop him from whirling Phoebe through a waltz. If he were only younger, or she older, they would make a handsome couple.
It was warm in the ballroom—too many bodies in one space. The smell of cologne and perfume mixed with heat and sweat gave Finley a headache. She hadn’t been asked to dance the waltz, and her card was blank for the next few selections—thankfully, as she wasn’t the best dancer—so she took this time to slip from the loud, stifling room.
She was nosy by nature, but her hurting head and pinched toes—Phoebe’s shoes were a titch too small—kept her impulse to look about under control. Rather than remain in the corridor, where she might have to socialize with other guests coming and going, she opened the door of the first room she found and stepped inside.
Finley waited a moment before closing the door behind her. She was in a parlor or a gentleman’s study—decorated in rich mahogany and dark blue. She’d read that such rooms were perfect places for a lovers’ tryst at these sort of parties, and wanted to make certain she hadn’t interrupted one.
“If there’s anyone in here, just clear your throat and I’ll go back where I came from,” she said. Better to feel foolish for talking to an empty room than accidentally spy a gentleman’s naked backside. Some things could not be “un-seen.”
The lighting in the room was mellow, easing the pressure inside her skull. She went to one of the windows and found it controlled by a strange apparatus. Instead of simply flipping the latch and opening the casement, she had to wind the key set into the window frame. Then, she watched as thin brass “arms” attached to the latch pulled it to the open position, and then slowly drew the glass toward her. When the breeze was exactly how she wanted, she merely turned the key back to its starting position and the mechanism came to a halt.
Lord Vincent certainly seemed to like his clockwork and automata. The house was positively crawling with scuttling metal creatures designed to do all manner of tasks. There were human servants, as well, but Finley had never seen such an abundance of brass and steel.
She turned her back to the window so the refreshing spring breeze could cool her nape. She rolled her neck, sighing as it popped and snapped, further easing the tension in her head and shoulders. When she opened her eyes she found herself staring at a portrait of Phoebe and Lord Vincent.
No, wait. That wasn’t Phoebe. Finley didn’t have to move closer to view the portrait in detail, but she did anyway. At this moment she didn’t trust her own eyes—which had become uncannily keen over the past few months. The improvement to her sight had been so gradual that she often forgot she could see much better than the average person. She walked toward the large, gilt-framed canvas, her eyes widening with each step.
It was a portrait of a much younger Lord Vincent—she’d been correct, he had been quite handsome in his youth—and the woman with him must have been his first wife, or at least a betrothed. The woman wore a large sapphire ring on her left hand—the same hand that covered one of Lord Vincent’s.
She looked so much like Phoebe it was eerie.
Of course, on closer examination it was easy to pick out the differences—Phoebe’s eyes were not quite as dark, her hair a bit more red, but the shape of her face was a perfect match, and her features so close they could have been twins, or at least sisters.
It was unsettling. Disturbing. And Finley wondered if Phoebe knew. She was also overwhelmed by the need to find out just what had happened to this woman.
“Robert, I said no!”
The cry came from outside, carried to her keen ears by the breeze through the open window. It was Phoebe’s voice.
Portrait forgotten, Finley quickly crossed to the window. From there she could see into the garden below. Flickering torches cast soft golden light over Phoebe and her companion—a young gentleman. Neither of them looked very pleased.
“I have to go,” Phoebe said. “Mama and Finley will be looking for me.”